


When Dark Nights Don't Bring Dark Thoughts

by roliver4



Series: "Maybe You Don't Write Enough..." [10]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Mush, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Minor Costia/Lexa, One Shot, Short One Shot, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9918827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roliver4/pseuds/roliver4
Summary: Sleeping Lexa awoken by another nightmare ans left alone with her thoughts for one more night





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys
> 
> I totally should be sleeping but my super sick and cuddly girlfriend keeps stealing the sheets and I'm fighting with a dog for leg room so I decided to write some crap instead
> 
> Sorry for typos, I wrote this on my phone
> 
> I hope you enjoy
> 
> Add me on tumblr so we can be friends: roliver901.tumblr.com

 

Trembling myself awake, I take a deep breath in, exhaling loudly into the silence engulfing the darkness around me. Nothing could battle darkness- nothing but the brutal, cold silence that exists when I am alone. I suck the air in quickly, swallowing it down and struggling through the feeling of it catching in each crevice in my throat. It's heavy and stagnant, thick with the fear that beads up through my pores, dampening the blanket clenched tight in my fist and the shirt draped loosely over my shoulders. I can feel the fabric sticking to my skin, each fiber molding and meshing itself together with me, melting into my own as If the heat radiating from my very core was enough to engulf this world in flames as it had done years before. 

 

Years before the Conclave.

 

Years before the Ascension.

 

Years before…. Her.

 

Glancing over at the mass beside me, I take a deep breath again, this time, taking my time to swallow it gently, allowing it's life-changing presence to fill my lungs and travel through my body like the blood of my ancestors. The same blood that filled the veins of the first Heda. The same blood that she brought from the sky after the Praimfaya to mark the Natblida. The same blood that I had to spill to get to the throne where I am today- as commander of the 13 clans. Even now, I can feel its presence through my body, rushing with each pound of my heart in my ears. 

 

Slowly, I release the air from my body, freeing it from its eternal hold behind my lips. I can feel each particle of it race between my teeth as I struggle to release the blanket from my whitened, scarred knuckles. The thin sheet which had held me tight in its embrace before my panic was now balled up in my lap, the weight of the mound keeping me grounded to the bed as if I could float away at any moment.

 

Dreams like this come to me frequently. It's not unheard up for a commander to have visions- it was supposed to be how commanders before me would guide me. But after everything, the visions has stopped. 

 

Ever since that day, all my dreams consist of is her. All my nightmares consist of is her. Every sleeping moment is spent reliving through the countless sparring matches and the jokes about me never completing the Conclave and feeling her fingers intertwined in mine, only to be interrupted by the dropping pit of despair that filled my gut when I opened that box. Within seconds, my dream world spirals into the same cold, silent, hardened darkness that I awake to, choking and gagging with the memory of Costia being presented to me one final time. 

 

But recently something had changed. Sometimes it's different. Taking yet another breath, I feel the small rustle beside me, her body rolling itself over to face me as she brushes her mane from her eyes, the still air leaving her mouth just a moment before her raspy, sandpaper words. “are you okay?” Clarke asks, her hand finding my still trembling arm. She skates her fingertips up my arm, dancing across the goosebumps that had yet to die down below the skin of my bicep. I nod gently, knowing that she can see straight through my lies, even with her eyes closed.

 

Those eyes of sapphire, the cool, crisp glow that illuminated my daily existence. The comfortable grasp of her stare as she sketched violently on an art pad, the perfect form between her irises and her fingers. The blue of steadfast and strong and steady, but light and friendly and calming. Clarke Griffin is the ultimate paradox and yet the ultimate paradigm. She is war and peace, despair and hope, helplessness and power. She is everything…

 

And i….

 

Well…

 

“did you have the same dream again?” she asks me, her words slicing through my tunneling thoughts as they buried me deeper and deeper into myself. The blonde wraps her fingers tightly around my wrist, nuzzling her small nose into my arm before breathing in deeply, the exhaustion in her tone dropping her shoulders beside me. Nodding once again, I allow my head to straighten up to look ahead, the door of my chambers catching my attention as a small sliver of light sneaks its way through the crack above the stone floor. The footsteps outside pace back and forth in their steadfast metronome, keeping with the pulsing of my heart as I slow my breathing to match the guards’ strides. I can't offer any more of a response to the woman before she releases my arm, wrapping her bare arms around my waist and pulling herself closer to me. “I'm sorry,” she pleads, the gravel in her throat grinding against each letter as she speaks it. “anything I can do?”

 

Shaking my head, I slide my body back down onto the bed below me, pulling the sheets over the shoulders of the blonde as she glides her arm across my chest, tucking her thin fingers under my ribs to hold tight to me. I wrap my arm around her back, allowing her head to rest perfectly in the bend of my shoulder before I kiss her forehead, smiling slightly as my lips graze her skin. Resting there for a moment, with my cheek against her head, I can't help but smile.

 

The great Wanheda, asleep in my arms.

 

She shuffles slightly, turning her head to kiss me before returning to her spot with a gentle whisper of “I'm sorry,” following behind her. 

 

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, feeling her head rise with my growing lungs, and exhale slowly, feeling her fall back towards the bed. Sometimes I have the dreams of Costia and the life we could have had. Sometimes I have the nightmares of her death and the pain that I brought her. But sometimes, the story is different. Sometimes, I dream of Clarke.

  
And lately, there have been more of the latter.


End file.
